The matter with Surya was dealt.
After this—he would no longer raise his voice.
Wouldn't dare grab anyone's collar. Not Rudra's. Not anyone's. Ever again.
His fate had been sealed. Not by prophecy, but by consequence.
Rudra let out a loud, guttural laugh—the kind that echoed through empty halls and froze blood in veins—
As Chrish dragged Surya's limp, broken body across the floor with one hand, like he was hauling a discarded sack of meat.
"Make sure the blood doesn't stain the marble," Rudra said, smirking.
"Bad for business."
This was how The Dragon of the Dragon Gang performed.
He didn't leave loose ends. No second chances.
He was the kind of man who would burn down entire empires—just to bury one traitor in the ashes.
And when it came to revenge, Rudra Deva Raya was ready to go to any length.
Even if it meant walking through hell barefoot—
As long as he was the one dragging the enemy behind him.
Even though he had left the gang life behind but as the saying goes 'habits die hard'.
After the matter with surya was done he sat again on his Throne.
In the meditation chamber of Lifeline Prophecies—doors locked, candles flickering, silence thick.
The noise of the outside world couldn't reach here.
He placed his hand gently on the golden throne—etched with mythical markings, symbols passed down by Master Krishna Deva Raya himself.
His mind drifted back to those early gang days—less complicated times, more focused. Ruthless, but clean. Back then, enemies were enemies, friends were friends, and betrayal came with a blade in the dark, not poison in a smile.
But today was something different. Rudra could feel it —something was off. As if the threads of fate were twitching.
He observed his own hand, the same hand that had decided the fates of thousands, that had predicted rises and falls with surgical precision. Everything looked normal—the lines, the mounts, the general structure. But something felt wrong. Terribly, catastrophically wrong.
This was the first time in years that Rudra couldn't read his own palm. The lines seemed to shift and blur before his eyes, like they were written in water instead of flesh. Which felt impossible. Unprecedented. Dangerous.
A chill ran down his spine—not from cold, but from recognition.
Now he was suspicious. More than suspicious. He was afraid.
"Chrish," Rudra said into the command device, his voice carrying the sharp edge of command.
"Run a full loyalty audit. Everyone. Top to bottom. Leave no one unchecked."
There was a pause—longer than usual, more hesitant.
"…Right away, sir."
Even Chrish sounded different..
And yet… Rudra's instincts screamed louder than ever, like sirens in his skull.
Something is not right. Something is not right.
Master Krishna's last words echoed in his memory like thunder: "When you cannot read your own hand, it means danger Rudra….."
But before Krishna could answer him his time was up he was long gone. His time had already run out.
"Master," Rudra whispered to the empty chamber, voice barely audible above the crackling candles. "What exactly did you mean by danger?"
And there was no one to answer him.
Just silence. Too much silence. The kind that came before storms.
The meditation chamber felt smaller suddenly, like the walls were closing in. The candle flames danced more frantically, casting writhing shadows that seemed almost alive.
He rang the servant bell—a small golden chime that usually brought immediate response.
Within seconds, a servant appeared at the chamber door. But something was wrong with his movements.
"Prepare the food," Rudra commanded, though his voice lacked its usual authority. Something in his gut was twisting, screaming warnings.
"Right away sir" the servent replied bowing his head almost to ninety degree.
The food came quicker than usual. Much too quick.
In his years as both gang leader and palmist, Rudra had learned to time everything. Kitchen preparations, servant movements, the rhythm of his household—he knew it all by heart. This was wrong.
The servant wheeled in the silver tray with mechanical precision, head still bowed unnaturally low, steps too measured, too rehearsed. Like an actor who had practiced his role too many times.
Rudra's eyes narrowed to slits, but he said nothing. Years of survival had taught him when to watch, when to wait, when to strike.
He sat at his personal dining table—a smaller, more intimate setting within the meditation chamber. He ate slowly, methodically, analyzing every sensation.
Each bite felt normal on the surface—but his instincts screamed otherwise, like alarm bells in his blood.
The curry had the same spice blend he'd grown accustomed to over the years. The bread was warm and soft, just how he preferred it. The wine was rich and deep, from his personal collection. But there was something beneath it all… something fundamentally wrong.
A metallic aftertaste.
His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted what would be the last bite. Not from fear—Rudra Deva Raya didn't know fear. From rage. Pure, incandescent rage.
What is this taste?
Then a single drop of sweat slid down his temple—not from heat, but from the realization of what was that metallic taste.
His breath began to slow, each inhalation becoming more labored. His heart thudded unevenly against his ribs, like a war drum losing rhythm.
This isn't just food… it has some sedatives. Poison?
He dropped the fork and it clattered against the plate.
The meditation chamber seemed spinning around him—once, then again, like the world was coming loose from its axis.
The gold inlays of his throne blurred into abstract streams of light. The ancient symbols on the altar seemed to writhe and dance mockingly.
His vision split into fractures, then began to blacken at the edges like burning paper.
The candle flames twisted violently, reaching toward him like accusing fingers, like the souls of everyone he'd ever killed coming for revenge.
He tried to rise from his chair, drawing on reserves of strength that had carried him through gang wars and assassination attempts. But his legs betrayed him, muscles turning to water.
His empire, built on fear and respect, was crumbling around him—and he couldn't even stand.
The last thing he saw… was darkness.